


Of questions and answers

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blowjobs, Clueless Sherlock, I like clueless Sherlock?, Insecure Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mention of Mystrade, Sex, Smut, just go with it, literally clueless, seriously blink and you'll miss it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6214597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks he and John aren't having enough sex.</p>
<p>So he asks around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of questions and answers

“What's the most appropriate frequency in regards to sexual intercourses?”

The sudden question made Molly cough, and she looked up from the microscope.

“I'm sorry??”

“Sex. I'm talking about sex,” Sherlock said, a huff of frustrated annoyance in his voice. “You talked to me about sex, once.”

Molly pursed her lips; her cheeks had suddenly more colour than usual. “I – I did…?”

A small, contained sigh; Sherlock was trying to keep patient. “So I want to know how many times a week should you have sex, when you're in a healthy relationship.”

Molly blinked. “Oh.”   
Sherlock looked at her with intense eyes, expectantly; Molly could only stare, wide-eyed even though she was trying her best not to look shocked.

“Uhm. Sherlock – there isn't really a rule-“

“Yes there is. There's rules for everything!” Sherlock interrupted her, throwing his hands up once, full-blown annoyance now showing in his furrowed eyebrows.

“What – why are you asking?” Molly wasn't sure it was a wise question, but perhaps it could help her get out from this pickle Sherlock had decided to stick her in. Or at least, she hoped against hope, it could make the whole thing feel less awkward.

“It’s about John and me. We’re seriously neglecting our sex life.” Molly’s eyebrows shot up, and she pursed her lips, now torn between mortification and amused surprise.   
Sherlock just continued. “We’re only having sex two or three times a week.”

Molly couldn't help but chuckle. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, trying hard to keep the smile out of her face, but failing. It only caused Sherlock to look at her, piqued and even more annoyed.

“Just because you don't take this seriously, doesn't mean it isn't.”

Molly shook her head, her lips still pursed. “N-no, it's not that Sherlock, I just think- that isn't – that's quite often for the average-“ she stuttered, trying to find words she could bear to pronounce without too much blushing.

Sherlock looked both horrified and affronted at her choice of words.

“Never you mind,” he announced, and went to flick his coat collar up around his neck. It covered the lower part of his frowning face. “Clearly you don't know what you're talking about.”

With that, he turned and left, letting the lab door slam with a dulled hard plastic noise in his wake, and leaving a bewildered, still blushing Molly stood by her microscope wondering what had just happened.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Come on, Geoff. It's not like we’re actually related!” Sherlock huffed, incredulous, scandalised wide eyes planted on Lestrade’s face.

_No, we aren't, since you can't seem to manage to remember my name even after having known me for near to 10 years,_ Greg thought but did not say.

“Sherlock, look,” he went for instead. “Your brother wouldn't raise a finger on you but I swear he won't think twice about assassinating anybody else. Including me! I’m not discussing any detail whatsoever about you and John having sex, and please don't even make me think about it, ta very much.”

This time, Sherlock’s frustrated huff was loud, and accompanied by hands slammed on thighs.

“This is ridiculous. I only want confirmation that once a day is the ideal frequency!”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade frowned, covered his face with a hand.

“I want it! It’s not like I don't! Nobody is making me – are you even listening?”

At that, Lestrade looked up.

“You want it?”

Sherlock regarded him with a _what did I just say?_ Look.

“You want to have sex. Every day.”

“Yes!” Sherlock nearly shouted, and rolled his eyes so hard Greg thought they were never going to return to their normal position. “What's with you and John? Why is this so weird? I am attracted to him, I want to have sex with him. It's natural. It's not my fault if he intends to ignore his needs for some godforsaken reason-“

“Sherlock, please!” Lestrade held out a hand to stop Sherlock’s rant. He’d heard enough. “Listen. I'm not asking because – because once a day is the requirement. I'm only asking because – I just thought you didn't think - don't you keep saying ‘it's just transport’?” Sherlock only stared at him, his eyes on fire with indignation.

Suddenly Greg felt extremely self conscious. How had he managed to let Sherlock involve him in all of this?

“Look, forget it. John is a lucky man. How about you tell him? Some men need – help, with these things,” he managed to say eventually.

Sherlock didn't respond. He only narrowed his eyes, shot a severe, unimpressed look at Lestrade, then shook his head and left once again.

 

 

 

 

Later that night, Sherlock stood in the hallway at Baker Street, in front of the mirror. His serious, contemplating gaze observed his reflection, judging, criticising. He tried to smooth a rebel curl away from his forehead; he pulled the fingers of one hand through his hair on his nape, watching the waves spring back from the stretch and curl prettily into place. John liked his curls very much.

He looked at his neck; the pronounced angles of his clavicles. He wore a dark blue, thin cotton shirt that clung to his chest and belly and flanks, highlighted the delicate definition of his pectoral muscles even whilst it hid them; he’d thought to wear it with his silk dressing gown over it – it was February, after all, it was still chilly even indoors – but changed his mind eventually. He took the shirt off, and wore the dressing gown over his nude torso instead. The luxurious fabric felt wonderful on his skin; and it was so sheer and thin that it let the nipples stand out, the contours of his pecs. The V of skin it created on his chest as he tied it loosely at his waist looked seductive, perfectly titillated the imagination.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

He’d been so concentrated on his preparations that he hadn't heard Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs, and her voice startled him.

She smiled, and gave a little chuckle.

“You needn't fuss so much.”

Quickly, Sherlock schooled his expression and regarded her with mild annoyance.   
Mrs Hudson was unfazed.

“John can’t take his eyes off you, love,” she explained, walking into the sitting room and depositing a plate of biscuits on the table by the window. “You don't even need to do anything. The way he looks at you..!”

Sherlock scowled but he felt his chest flush – and against his will, his cheeks were burning with pleasure at Mrs Hudson’s words.

“Don't be ridiculous. And this is none of your business,” he still reprimanded.

Mrs Hudson smiled, secretive; her eyes lit up. “You finish getting ready. You boys will have extra privacy tonight - I'm going over to my friend Dorothy to babysit for her niece.”

And with that, she left; Sherlock could swear she winked, even.

So even Mrs Hudson thought that he and John were having more sex than they actually did. Even she thought John was constantly all over him!

Sherlock scowled hard at his reflection on the mirror.

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock liked listening to their breathing as they kissed. Their breaths synchronised to the point that he couldn't tell the difference between his and John’s, it was almost a chant, a lullaby. And he especially liked the deep, lazy kisses they shared after sex, when they had time, when John wasn’t too tired that he fell asleep soon after orgasm, when John didn't have to get up to go to work or when they didn't have to get their clothes back on in a rush because they'd fucked in a Scotland Yard office or in an alley – or, once, the rooftop of a hotel they'd gone to for a case and John had wanted to fuck him on while enjoying the view.

The trick with the dressing gown had worked: as soon as he got through the door John had looked at him, licked his lip (unconscious, Sherlock loved when he made him do that), sat on the sofa and asked him to come over. They hadn't even said anything: John had pulled Sherlock’s bottoms down, sucked him off for quite a long time, pausing only when he was about to come – then kissed his way up Sherlock’s body, traced his nipples with a finger and just the edge of his fingernail over the dressing gown, stroked the naked V of skin on the collarbone.

By the time they'd tumbled into bed, John had licked his nipples through the silk, wetting the fabric and driving Sherlock half-mad with desire; then taken the gown off and his own clothes, and they soon were moaning into each other’s mouth, loud, touching each other everywhere, fingering and squeezing and pulling and scratching.

“So what's this thing that we don't have enough sex?” John asked later on, as they separated after another long, breathless kiss. He was lying on top of Sherlock, legs in between his legs – and Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes and looked up from his comfortable John-shaped cocoon.

“I don't know what you mean.”

John was serious.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes.

“I'm concerned we’re neglecting the sexual side of our relationship,” he mumbled, after a few seconds of sulking. “The frequency of our intercourses has decreased, and from my sources, sex is how people show love to a partner, so you can deduce what my –“ he looked away “- conclusion, is.”

John gaped. “Sherlock?”

“People have sex every day,” Sherlock continued, resolutely refusing to meet John’s eyes. “So, since we don’t, I thought I would – ask. To gather information from – different sources.”

John blinked; then he nudged Sherlock’s face gently so that he could look into his eyes.

“Sherlock – no. No. Listen to me – first of all, people don't have sex every day.” He frowned, seemed to want to correct himself. “Not always anyway. And if they do, not for long! And in any case, it's not a rule.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Hey,” John said then, and disentangled himself from Sherlock's body so they could lie on their sides and face each other. “Sex is not an indication of – love. Or – not the only indication. Is this- what you thought, that I love you less? Because we have been having less sex?”

Sherlock gave him a hard look, eyebrows pushed together, eyes shining with an edge of wariness that made them narrow. He pulled himself away a bit, laying back down flat on the bed and clutching the bed sheet up to cover his chest. Sulking.

“You do know that's rubbish, right?”, John said, gently, to take the bite away from the words. He wanted to ask where Sherlock had gathered this kind of dubious data from, but he didn't want to sound like he was ridiculing. “That's absolutely not true. Sex has got nothing to do with – with how much I love you.”

Sherlock looked at him sideways for a moment, then went back to looking at the ceiling.

“And if you want to have sex every day, then – I'd be lucky. Count me in,” John added, cringed and chuckled at his own bad pun.   
Sherlock didn’t join in.

“Yes, I do. And you're a liar. You don't want to.”

John sighed, but knew not to take offence.

“Do you remember on Monday, when I got back from work, I gave you that nice kiss by the window, and I said you looked stunning in that new suit, the blue one?”

Sherlock blinked, then reluctantly nodded.

“I didn't say it, but I wanted to have sex. You told me you were waiting for those specimens to be brought in by the homeless network, so I left it.”

Sherlock's eyes blinked again, but stayed glued to the ceiling. John continued.

“Week just gone, when was it- Thursday or Friday-“

“We had sex in the bath on Friday,” Sherlock interrupted, giving John a side look as he corrected him. “You complained there wasn't enough space and said you wanted to book an entire pool for us so we could have intercourse in the water properly.”

“Y-yes,” John closes his eyes shut tightly, cringed quietly to himself. “Okay – Thursday then. You let me put my hand,” he coughed, “down your trousers, we were almost flat on the sofa and then you said that you had an experiment you needed to check urgently, got up and left.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened then, his eyebrows shot tightly together, and he turned his face sharply around to stare at John in utter confusion.

“What do-“

“What do I mean?” John interrupted, watching Sherlock’s expression with affectionate amusement. “I mean – all of those times, when you just – got up and left - should I have thought you've stopped loving me? Or worried that we’re neglecting our relationship?”

John watched, as Sherlock’s frown stayed stubbornly in place but he bit his lower lip, blinked for a moment, and took a deep breath. Sherlock Holmes may never admit that he got something wrong, not out loud – but John knew how to recognise, from his expression and body language, when he conceded defeat.

He planted a hand on the mattress and lifted himself up, reached out to kiss Sherlock’s mouth, which was still beautifully pouting.

“Nothing's changed, love,” he said. Then he smiled, mischievously, and his hand went to stroke a curl away from his forehead. “Though something has to.”

At that, Sherlock looked up. His expression went from deeply pensive to suddenly alarmed.

“Oh really?”

John smiled again.

“You need to stop using the word ‘intercourse.”

Sherlock regarded him with a look – confused at first, then exasperated; then he rolled his eyes, and rolled back to lie flat on the bed, huffing a bit.   
John found he was rather enjoying himself.

“’Having sex’ is perfectly fine to use,” he suggested, shifting his body so he was lying over Sherlock’s supine form, with his hands on each side of him. He smiled suggestively, reached down to find Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

“Or also, ‘making love’...” He murmured on his lips. Sherlock grimaced, squirmed – he hated that expression - and John laughed.

“How about, ‘fucking…”  
  
His voice was low, and husky. They looked into each other's eyes; then John kissed him again; and they did exactly what John was suggesting, for the second time that evening.

And after that night, Sherlock didn't think he was going to have cause to complain or worry ever again.

 


End file.
